


The Cat’s Tale

by SBlackmane



Series: Two Grumpy Elves and Other Tales [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action/Adventure, And Always Listen To The Healer, Avvar, Avvar Culture and Customs, Cat Puns, Drama, Fallow Mire (Dragon Age), Keep Your Feet Dry!, M/M, Magic, Shapeshifting, Varric Tethras' Nicknames
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-06-25 14:00:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19747183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SBlackmane/pseuds/SBlackmane
Summary: Elias's past with Thane Movran's tribe comes back to bite him when he joins the scouts on the expedition to the Fallow Mire.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a side story in the Two Grumpy Elves AU, and can be read separately, or along with the rest. Basically just elaborates on Elias's backstory, and takes place after Cheers in the timeline.
> 
> Also, I took some creative liberties with this, so don't expect it to be 100% canon compliant.

So many years wandering the Frostbacks, moving with the hunt, have broken me of any other climate. I might shiver in the cold now and then, when the weather picks up and it’s just too cold to thrive, but being back in southern Ferelden has me in tatters. The heat and humidity have me sweating profusely, hot to the point I’ve taken my tunic and stuffed it in my knapsack. The human scouts in my company stare at me as if I’m daft, like they’ve never seen someone shirtless before.

Don’t know what it is with humans and their sense of propriety. It’s as if their Maker will strike them dead if they expose too much of their collar for others to see. Oh and women? Ridiculous. They think it’s scandalous to show off an ankle here or wrist there. They get so bashful about it, like they’re practically naked. No, I’ve seen naked. That ain’t it. But maybe it’s because I’ve taken my boots off that they’re giving me funny looks. “You’ll catch ill, doin’ that, Healer,” one of them says.

“Maker’s balls, get a load of this one, eh?” says another. “Spends all day treating wounded, yet still don’t have enough sense to keep his boots on.”

“Gonna get a fungus between those toes, sir,” says a third.

I give them a minute, in case they have more.

After that I stop, turn and say, “Are you all quite finished then?”

The group behind me comes to a halt.

I’ve been leading the procession as I’m most familiar with the area. According to Sister Leliana I’m in charge of this expedition, and the scouts are to follow my lead. The rumors of Avvar have set everyone on edge, and as I’ve spent some time among their people, Cullen and Leliana thought it right that I should act as a guide, and possibly a negotiator on behalf of the Inquisition. A laughable thought. There is no negotiating with Avvar. Only fight your way out or run away, and hope you don’t get an arrow in your back.

And really, all running does is give them a chase. A bit of sport, before they slit your throat. Most are quite honorable, and will challenge you to a fair fight, but if you run, you’re nothing but a coward in their eyes, and only good for feeding their Hold beasts. Movran himself liked to keep wolves. Ever seen a pack of wolves tear a man in two? It’s not a pretty sight. But it’s both a great honor, and a great punishment, to be fed to the Hold beasts. And yes, every Hold has their own.

“First off,” I huff at the scouts in my company. “Walking around in a bog with soggy boots is what puts a fungus in your toes.” I wiggle my own. “Keep ‘em clean and dry an’ you won’t have that worry. Best to go barefoot. And easier to sneak quietly around danger rather than confront it if your not clomping around in them dirty, sweaty boots.” I drop my pack on the ground. “Secondly, see them marks in the dirt? Boot prints. Avvar will track them.

You don’t wear boots, the treads on the bottom won’t leave a mark in the softer soil… And thirdly.” The scouts hold their breath as I glare at them. “Shut the fuck up, the lot of you. We crossed over into Avvar territory about an hour ago. Keep noise to a minimum lest you want an arrow in your back for scarin’ off their prey.” I turn around, and smirk satisfactorily at the look on their faces of utter terror. We haven’t actually crossed into their territory, but that’ll keep them quiet for the moment.

They’re not a bad lot, but they’re annoying. The oldest and most experienced is Fiver. He was a Templar and a mage hunter before he joined. Good at tracking apostates, but not much experience with anything else. He knows to spot a broken twig here, or a boot print there, but without a phylactery in his hand, he’s bloody useless. In another life, he might’ve been one of the Templars hunting me down when I ran away from home, but instead he’s following me diligently, like the good little Marcher he is.

The second in our regiment is Addie, and though she’s young, she’s got more sense in her head than sovereigns, and never utters a word, much less a complaint. She was a hunter, before joining the Inquisition, but not a hunter of mages. Like me, she was on her own scraping out a living before the Breach happened. Started out as a hunter for the Inquisition, bringing in meat and pelts to help feed and clothe the refugees of the war, was recommended as a scout for her tracking abilities.

Along for the ride is Ritts. Don’t know her story, don’t really care. All I care to know is that she has some feasible knowledge of herbs and knows not to eat the poisonous berries. Tibbs found out the hard way. Dumber than nug shit, that one, but he’s good with a bow. In his defense though, goose berries do look a lot like grapes, and he just ate too many, that’s all. Was laid out with a bad stomach ache for hours afterwards, and kept rushing off to the woods to relieve himself til it passed.

Lastly, there’s Ferret, who I think might be mute, actually. Hasn’t so much as grunted in response to anything I’ve said. Either that or he’s deaf. Don’t know how a deaf man could be a scout, unless he’s got some sort of magic that compensates for that. Can’t tell if he’s a mage though. Magic to cloak magic is not something I’ve ever heard of. So I doubt it. He carries a blade too big for his gangly arms, but at least he doesn’t make noise when he walks. Just huffs a little loudly when he breathes.

I stop the group to rest near a trickling stream, urge them all to wash off and get rid of the sweat, which will rid of any stench animals might pick up. Humans, I swear, are the smelliest creatures to ever walk the earth and I don’t know how they stand themselves. We rinse ourselves off and replenish our canteens. “Ration your water. Don’t want to drink from the Mire. You’ll catch ill. There’s corpses in those waters.” They wrinkle their noses at that fact. “Victims of the Blight. Bodies tainted the marsh.”

Fiver let’s out a shudder of disgust. “Is it still blighted?”

I shake my head. “Not after so many years. But the rotted flesh will spread disease almost as quickly as the Blight itself. All manner of things a person can catch from drinking that.”

“How do you know so much about this stuff?” Ritts hisses, curious. I shrug.

“All kinds of ways of learning,” I say. “Just takes listening to the right people.” My ears pick up a sound in the bushes. A twig snapping and I hold up my hand for silence. The group quiets, holding their breath. Movran’s people shouldn’t be anywhere near here this time of year, but I suspect the Breach and the rifts have staggered their typical hunting patterns. Another branch snaps, a bit closer and just to the right. At least two then. Slowly I grasp the dagger at my belt. Three. Four? No, five of them.

Ritts sees me reach for my dagger and slowly clutches hers. Tibbs quietly notches an arrow, and Ferret grips the handle of his blade. I keep my hand raised, keeping them still, listening for sounds. They're surrounding us now, which means they’re moving in for an ambush, not passing us by. I signal for them to move slowly and about face, in a semi circle, our backs to one another, facing the woods around us, eyes on the trees. Movran would’ve showed himself by now, or called out from cover.

This isn’t his pack then. It’s someone else’s. A chill races down my spine when I suspect who this must be.

“Does the Hand of Korth not wish to come out and face his enemy like man?” I call out.

I hear a dark chuckle in response and some of the others jump.

“Those are mighty words for such a tiny elf,” I hear a booming voice echo. “Been far too long, Soft-Paw.”

“Or not long enough?” I question.

Another bark of a laugh and the group steps out from behind the trees, horse bows knocked and drawn, aimed at our heads. And there, in front of me, with a flash of a bright red beard hiding under a great horned helmet, holding a two-handed hammer, is the Hand of Korth.

“So, did ya miss me, lowlander?” he asks, tightening his grip on the hammer, and in turn I draw my dagger in warning.

“Define ‘miss’,” I reply, and he laughs.

I don’t like that laugh. It’s not a friendly laugh.

I have a bad feeling about how this encounter just might end.

“The fuck are you doing here?” I ask the bearded brute as he swings his hammer up and over to rest on his broad shoulder.

“I might ask the same of you,” he says, smirking under that helmet.

“You know this one?” Ritts whispers to me, keeping her dagger raised.

“I know them all,” I say, loud enough for the Hand’s compatriots to hear.

“Soft-Paw was banished from our Hold some years ago,” Hand says, as if just making conversation, and not having any nefarious intent. But I know him too well. This is not chance encounter.

“Movran cast you out, didn’t he?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Banishment?”

“More or less,” he shrugs, then steps closer, towering over me. “He thought to send me to Tevinter, but I have other plans.” He continues to smile ruefully at me, and my patience reaches its end.

“I’ve never known you to speak circles, Hand. Out with it then,” I say. I let go of my dagger and fold both arms expectantly. “What do you want with the Inquisition?”

He shrugs. “Alright, I’ll tell you then. Won’t matter much, you’ll be dead soon anyway.”

A chill races down my spine at that, but I wait, to hear him out first, before I make my move. But what he says next sort of throws me for a loop.

“Your Herald of Andraste as he’s called is bending to a false god,” he says. “And I want to see if this god truly has any worth, much less the might of ours. If I prove myself worthy in their eyes, my father will take me back and be done with his banishment. I'll do so by proving myself mightier than your Herald. I mean to challenge him. But first, I’ll send him a message. I’ll kill you lot to do it. Will make for a good one, I’d say.”

He grins wickedly, as do the others, drawing his hammer once more and I panic.

“Wait!” I exclaim, throwing up both hands, heart pounding rapidly. “Just-just wait.”

“Have you last words to share, little cat?”

“A bargain rather,” I say, and the Hand raises a brow in interest.

“Oh? And what’s that?”

_Come on, Elias, think!_

Ah! I’ve got it. I snap my fingers, saying, “Take us prisoner instead.”

He snorts. “Whatever made you think I’d let you live?”

“Well what’s the point in killing us really?” I shrug. “If you kill us, the Herald might only turn a blind eye to it. We’re only a few scouts after all. He might go to the Hold instead, seeking retribution for the offence. But if you let us live… hold us hostage instead, offer a bargain for our lives, you might inspire the Herald to meet your challenge, in exchange for our lives.” Hand quirks a brow at that and rubs his chin, mulling it over. Big oaf never thought of that, did he?

“Hmm, not a bad idea,” he finally agrees. But then he steps even closer, snatching me by the back of the head. “But you’d better hope your Herald survives, little cat. For if he dies, so do you.”

That’s the last thing I remember before he hits me over the head, knocking me unconscious.

* * *

Leliana steps quietly into the counseling chamber, holding Harding’s latest report.

She wastes no time in handing it over to Cadash to read. “I just received this not an hour ago,” she says. “The scouts we sent to the Fallow Mire have gone missing. They were supposed to have met with Harding’s team by now, but weren’t at the location when they arrived. We fear they may have been taken captive.” A troubling look comes across her face. “The Healer was with them. We sent him as a guide. He knows the Avvar. I imagine that’s the only reason they’re still alive.”

Cadash glances over Lace’s report, furrowing his brow. The location is a marsh, likely riddled with rifts, and no one was even expecting Avvar to be in the area, but some sort of splinter group has taken control of a fortress on the outskirts of the old town that had been erected some time before the last Blight. It’ll be a son of a bitch to infiltrate, if there’s no chance of negotiating for their people’s release. They can’t even be sure of their intentions. Avvar don’t usually take prisoners.

They want nothing to do with the rest of the world. Why now do they suddenly take an interest in it?

“I’ll assemble a team and get down there,” Cadash agrees, after rereading the report. “Whether or not we can free our agents, we at least need to know what the Avvar want with the Inquisition.”

“Be careful, Herald,” Commander Cullen urges. “A single Avvar alone can be a tough opponent, but a fortress of them may break past defenses much quicker than the average man.”

“And if they are uniting, and there is an army of them,” Josephine speculates.

“I doubt as much,” Leliana says. “According to Elias, they don’t interact much even with other tribes. But the Commander is right. Even one Avvar warrior can topple a village when provoked.”

“Gee thanks for the inspiring pep talk,” the Herald reams sarcastically before leaving.

He heads down to the tavern to pick up Varric and Sera, then finds Blackwall at the stables.

In a moment’s notice, they’re ready to set out, headed to the Fallow Mire.

A land of stench and death, which doesn’t exactly boast of a good time.

Cadash can’t for the life of him think of why _anyone_ would ever choose to live there in the first place.


	2. Chapter 2

My skull feels like it’s splitting in two when I awaken. Everything’s a blur at first, as I blink open my eyes, finding it difficult at first to adjust to the darkness. Wherever I am, I’m inside the place, surrounded by stone, dimly lit by a few scattered torches.

“Bout bloody time,” a rich, deep voice echos throughout the chamber and my hair raises.

The Hand of Korth.

I’ve been taken captive by the bloody Hand of Korth.

As if my life can’t get any worse.

“Where am I?” I grumble, lifting my head. I’m tied to a chair. The Hand is sitting in one across from me, helmet set aside, big arms folded across his chest, smug grin on his face. I look around the room. “Where are the others?” I ask, panicking, when I see it’s just the two of us in the chamber. Had he kept his word or did he kill them all, only leaving me alive to torture me first. I test the bonds that restrain me. “You know these ropes can’t hold me, Hand,” I remind with a snarl.

He chuckles. “I didn’t forget,” he says. “Hard to forget a feisty little beast like you, Soft-Paw. Bet you wish I had.” He glances behind him. “Door is bolted shut, and I don’t have the key. You might free yourself from those bonds, but neither of us are getting out until I give my men the signal. And don’t worry, your people are alive. Probably ain’t too happy with their circumstances, but they’re all breathing still. Your Herald will decide if they stay that way.”

The Herald. I need to figure out how to get word to the Herald that we’re taken captive. I need to warn him. He has to know the Avvar’s plans. We were supposed to meet Scout Harding on the edge of the Mire, near the old village, and I have no idea where we are, or how soon she’ll get word to Haven that we’re missing. If she reports back to Haven. Will anyone even come looking for us? I’ll admit I was bluffing a little when I suggested the Hand take us captive.

I don’t actually know what the Inquisition will do, or how they’ll respond to this change of circumstances. Will they negotiate with Avvar? Will they even care? Or will they cut their losses and abandon the search? Do they even think we’re alive still? Too many unanswerable questions are burning in my mind, and I’ve still yet to figure out how to escape. But my most immediate question is why am I not with the other hostages? “What you want with me, Hand?” I ask.

He smiles. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask.” He leans back further in his seat, stretching his legs and getting comfortable, like he means to be here for a while. What, does he mean to interrogate me then? Find out what I know? Ask me where I’ve been all these years? Play catch up like we’re old friends? A laughable thought. “I’ll admit, I didn’t expect to see you again. Got to thinkin’ about how things were when you left,” he says, scratching his beard.

Then he sighs, nostalgically, like a man reminiscing about the ‘good ole days’.

I snort a little. “Were you suddenly reminded of how much of an _arse_ you were?”

He scowls at that, then leans forward to backhand me, striking me hard enough to draw blood and my head spins. I spit out the bit of blood pooling in my mouth. He didn’t hit me as hard as I thought he would, to be honest. Considering how nasty things got between us before I left. “And I see you’re still a smart-mouthed little shit,” he spits at me, speckles of saliva splattering my face in his venom. “And still not good for much more than an easy fuck,” he adds. I shrug a little.

“Oh I don’t know, I picked up a few new tricks since I left. Might surprise you.”

“Eh, enough of this banter,” he says, waving a hand. “You and I have other things to discuss. You didn’t just walk into the Fade when you left the Hold. Where’ve you been, Soft-Paw?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Don’t play games with me, cat. Where’d you go when you left my father’s Hold?”

When I don’t answer, he backhands me again, this time hitting me hard enough to knock the chair over and I hit the cold stone floor, the wind knocked out of me. “Why the fuck do you care?” I ask between labored breaths.

“It’s not a coincidence you come back right when my father banishes me to Tevinter. What are you planning?”

“You think I’m plotting against you?” I almost want to laugh at this point, but all that will get me is a boot to the chest. “You think I came back looking for you?”

“Did you?”

“No. It was accident.”

“Like hell it was.”

“It was! I just so happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time!”

“You expect me to believe it was just an accident that they sent you of all people to the Mire?”

I sigh a little, wriggling where I lay on my side. “Put the chair back up please…Gods damn it, Hand, put the chair back up!” After a moment’s hesitation, the Hand reaches with one hand to effortlessly lift the chair and right it, and I sway a little in the act. “Thank you. Now, as I was about to explain, it’s not an accident they sent me, but not for the reason you think. They knew Avvar were in the area, so they sent me as a guide because I know your people. They don’t know anything else.”

“Why are you with the Inquisition?”

“Dunno, seemed like the right thing to do. They’re trying to help people. Put an end to the fighting in Ferelden. I just so happened to be passing by, headed north, when the sky opened, and I stayed to help them as a healer. That’s all there is to it.”

“And why were you headed north?”

“Hand…”

“Why were you headed north?!”

“I was going to Jader!” I shout at him. “I wasn’t planning on setting foot anywhere near Movran and his people! Are you satisfied?! Do you have the answers you were looking for?!”

The Hand of Korth studies me for a moment, judging the weight of my words, before narrowing his eyes. “You certain of that?”

“It’s the bloody truth, Hand,” I groan. “I don’t rightly give a shit what happened between us and I don’t have some secret plot to enact my revenge, alright?” My lip trembles a little. “I should’ve. I should’ve come back and lit your bloody tent on fire, is what I should’ve done. But I didn’t. Lady take me if I’m lying, but I have no quarrel with you, Hand. When I left, I put you, your father, and your whole bloody clan far behind me and never looked back.”

“And even Amund?” he asks.

My heart stutters at the name.

Tears threaten to fall at his mention, but I blink them away.

“Why should Amund care about what happens to me? If he cared so much, why didn’t he take up for me? Why’d he let your father cast me out? Frankly, you did me a service, I’d wager. Means I don’t have to put up with him anymore.”

“Hmph,” is his only response to that.

Finally looking like he’s starting to believe me, Hand sighs and stands up. He grabs me tightly by the arm, unties the ropes around my wrists and drags me to my feet. Then, as he clutches me, he reaches behind him to rap on the door, twice, then pauses, before knocking a third time, so they know it’s him knocking. “You even think of shifting, and you’ll get an arrow in your back,” he tells me, then drags me out of the room and down the hall. We’re in a castle, that much is evident.

I remember an old, crumpled heap of a fortress being somewhere in these marches, but I don’t know the exact location in proximity to Harding and her team and where they’d be camped. If I ran, I might only get myself lost, that’s even if I can escape the compound. I count the heads as Hand drags me through the keep and we pass the warriors standing guard. More than the number of men that surrounded us in the woods. He’s got whole castle full of warriors maybe.

I have no choice but to let him lead me around, but as he does, I commit to memory the lay out of the bit of fortress I’m able to see, and he takes me to the chamber where’s he kept the others, tossing me inside and slamming the door shut behind me. “Elias!” Ritts gasps, just as Fiver is exclaiming, “Healer!” and I hear a couple of the others murmuring too. There’s no light where we’re kept, but for a hole in the ceiling from which natural light pours in. Too high up to climb, too small to fit through anyhow.

The Hand of Korth outplayed me on this one. He made damned certain he found a room I couldn’t get out of. No amount of magic could help me. I slump on the floor, wallowing in pain now that the Hand isn’t here to see it and revel in my misery. “What did they do to you, sir?” Ritts asks me, but all I can do is huff. Oh, nothing, if I’m to be honest. That was pleasant compared to some of their encounters. Hand only extended me any kind of courtesy because he knows me.

Had he not, he would’ve bludgeoned me to death without so much as a word and felt no guilt about the matter.

“Where are we?” Fiver asks.

“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “I’m afraid we’re not getting out of here until the Herald shows up.”

“That’s _if_ he shows up,” Tibbs grouses nearby. “Damned dwarf might not ever find us.”

“Oh, he’ll find us eventually,” I say. “The Hand will make certain of that. His ego’s as big as his fat head. He’ll make good and damned certain Cadash rises to his challenge.”

“But will we live long enough to see that happen?” Fivar huffs. “What if he changes his mind and kills us all? You’re the one that knows him. Be honest. What are our chances of survival?”

I could lie to them, give them false hope and say, ‘Oh we’ll survive. The Herald will come save us just like in one of Varric’s stories and everything will be all roses and sunshine by the end of the day, just you wait and see.’ But truthfully, the odds of Hand getting bored in the meantime and deciding to off us anyway are greater than I’d like them to be. He may decide to kill them just to spite me. He’d save me for last, make me watch them all die slow, agonizing deaths.

Just when I’m about to come up with some backhanded response, the door swings open, letting in a small crack of torchlight before it closes, and I blink up at the figure standing above me in surprise.

Honestly, it was the last person I ever expected to see, and I’m not sure if his presence is a good thing or not. I pry myself to my feet and slowly back away when he steps into the light. He’s not carrying his staff, but instead a satchel, and reaches to take off his masked helmet.

My eyes widen.

“Amund?!”

The Sky Watcher smiles.

“Been a long time, little one.”


	3. Chapter 3

My heart is racing when I see him step into the light, and remove his helmet. How many years has it been now? Yet here he is, in the flesh, a hand reaching to slick back long strands of reddish blonde hair, pale blue eyes staring back into mine, questioningly, smiling tentatively. Almost cautious of me, like he expects me to transform in a puff of purple smoke and rip out his throat. But a lump rises in mine. Yes, I was angry with him when I left all those years ago, but…

Gods, it’s been so long, and I thought I’d never see him again. That’s all I can think of now. Before I can stop myself I’m running into Amund’s embrace, burying my face in his thick fur armor, breath knocked out of me when his big arms curl around me. “I thought you were dead,” I hear him chuckle. “When the Thane cast you out, I’d thought surely you would perish. But I should’ve known better. Always been a tough little cat, even if your paws are softer than a rabbit’s ear.”

I grin at those words. He’s the one that gave me that name. When I was plopped down at his feet, Thane Movran having found me in the woods, and decided to take me back to their village instead of killing me. Thought something was wrong with me, for I’d been living on my own for six months, behaving much like the cat I transformed into. Frightened, growling and hissing at the warriors. “What’s wrong with the boy?” Movran had asked him. “He possessed or somethin’?”

The young mage snorted, saying, “No. Just thinks he’s an animal.” He stared down at me, curious. “What’s your name, little one?”

He reached out to pick me up, but I hissed, shifting back into a cat and hiding behind a nearby chest.

“Where’s his clan?”

“Don’t think he has one.”

And that’s when it was decided that Amund would keep me. Teach me how to control my powers as I grew into them. Movran left me with the man, frightened and confused, but curious of him. He wasn’t like the others. Softer, gentler, and quieter than the other warriors of their tribe. A thoughtful one. A Sky Watcher, content to keep his gaze on the heavens, to listen to what they Lady wanted, rather than squabble over material things with the rest of the tribe.

He picked me up by the scruff of my neck and I fell lax in his grip, as he gazed up at me.

My tail flicked wildly as he grabbed one of my paws, inspecting it, pressing with his thumb and forefinger until my claws unsheathed then slowly retracted. “Paws are too soft for this dirt, eh, little one?” he said. Then he chuckled. “That’s what we’ll call you. Soft-Paw.”

Little did I know at the time how this man would change the course of my life.

And here he stands, in front of me now, after so many years.

Hasn’t changed a bit.

But I have.

I pull away from the embrace when I remember this is not some warm family reunion. I’ve been taken prisoner by the Hand of Korth, Movran’s firstborn, and Amund is among those banished from the mountains. “What are you doing here?” I ask Amund, dabbing at the blood on my lip with my hand, from where the Thane’s son backhanded me with that big beefy mitt of his. Amund looks me over, then starts rummaging through the satchel of things he carries, pulling out a bit of elfroot.

“Long story,” he says in short. He hands me the elfroot, then hands the scouts some loaves of bread and a bit of fruit. He’s been tasked with keeping us alive, evidently. My heart sinks at the thought of the Sky Watcher willingly following along with the Hand’s foolish scheming. I never knew Amund to be dishonorable. Even when I was banished, he didn’t speak in my defense because it wasn’t his place. I know I said otherwise to the Hand, but Amund did the right thing letting me leave.

Had he spoken against Movran’s decision to banish me, he would be forsaking his loyalty to his Thane for a lowlander, an outsider. An interloper who should never have been among them in the first place, but for whatever reason, Movran saw it fit to show me mercy, rather than feed me to his wolves when he found me. But it did sting that Amund didn’t have so much as a word to say to me when I was banished. Not even a farewell and good journey, much less an apology.

When I was younger, I hated him for it, but as an adult, I understand things much more clearly now. At any rate, it’s a topic we can save for later. We have more important things to worry about right this second.

“Don’t tell me you’re going along with this foolish plan of Hand’s,” I say, but to my relief, he shakes his head in denial.

“The Lady saw fit for me to be here,” is his only explanation as to why he’s come. But it’s the only explanation I need. He’s here because he needs to be, and I’m very glad for that. Amund has only ever served Her purpose, and I doubt she’d ever send him on a dishonorable quest. Regardless of what the Hand of Korth means to accomplish, I can guarantee Amund wouldn’t go along with it willingly. “The sky is torn open, and the Lady weeps. I aim to find a way to heal it.”

“The Herald can,” I tell him and he perks in interest. “I’ve not seen it personally, but hundreds of people have seen him close the rifts, all over Ferelden, and provided he gets help, he can even seal the Breach.”

“Hmm, then I should like to meet him.”

“Well, he won’t be able to help if the Hand kills him,” I say. He snorts.

“If he’s truly the Herald of a God, the Hand of Korth will fall at his blade.”

Heh, maybe? I’ve heard the whispers and the rumors, the stories told about him at the tavern and how he’s been adventuring around Ferelden and fighting anything from demons pouring out of the rifts, to bandits and bears. Anything and everything to keep people safe. He’s a tough one, for a Marcher, and he’s quite talented with his blade. But could he possibly defeat the Hand of Korth single-handed in a fair fight? Or would the dwarf get squished beneath his boot?

“Well, we’ll see about that, I suppose,” is all I can say. Behind me the others have their opinions I’m sure, but they’re too busy gnawing on the bits of food Amund brought for them. “I could take you to meet him, if you get us out of here.”

He lifts a brow. “Oh I’d planned to get you out of here,” he says, and the others perk up in interest. He sighs. “I can’t get you all out,” he tells them, to their dismay. “Not without the Hand catching on. He’s garrisoned the whole fort with men. There are too many of them, and he has guards watching the door, even as we speak.” He turns to me. “But you’ll be easier to sneak past the front gate. If you keep quiet, he won’t suspect a thing. You can send for Andraste’s warrior to free your companions.”

I twitch a little in nervousness. I know what he means for me to do. But the scouts with me have never seen me shapeshift. No one has. They know I’m an apostate, but they’ve never seen me use such forms of magic. I don’t know how they’ll react to it, or if they’ll suddenly decide I’m a blood mage, or possessed by a demon, for how else could I possibly have learned such witchcraft, right? “How are you going to sneak him out?” Fiver asks incredulously, and I sigh.

Then I shift, with a pop and a crackle, dropping to all fours as a little cloud of magical smoke wafts around me, sitting back on my haunches and licking my paw as the smoke dissipates. “Maker’s breath, he’s a hedge witch,” I hear and I roll my eyes, ear flattening. Amund chuckles. “Chantry doesn’t teach that sort of magic.” No, I don’t imagine they do. I look up at the enormous Sky Watcher. _So, where am I to hide then?_ I ask with my eyes. _In your satchel, or your hat?_

Lady forbid he hides me in his trousers.

He reaches down and scoops me up, placing me on his shoulder and I burrow under his hair. He winces a little when my claws rake against his skin. _Sorry about that_ , I think. Bit hard to avoid clawing him when I have no other way to keep my balance, perched like this. Makes sense to hide me here though. First place they’d look would be the satchel. He reaches for his helmet and puts it back on. I hear Ritts chuckle. “Maker, you can’t even tell he’s in there,” she says. “This might work.”

“The Hand of Korth won’t let you suffer too terribly,” he tells them. “He’ll keep you alive to keep to his end of the bargain, but if you try to escape, he won’t spare you. So don’t do anything stupid.”

“We’ll await your return,” Ritts tells him with a curt nod and a salute. “We’re just grateful someone here is on our side.”

“The Lady doesn’t take too kindly to underhanded scheming,” he explains. “And the Hand of Korth is as dishonorable as they come.”

“I should like to meet this Lady,” Tibbs says next to Ritts between bites of an apple. Amund chuckles.

“Then look up,” he says, then unlocks the door, leaving Tibbs to stare confusedly at the mage before he closes the door shut behind him.

I hold my breath as Amund steps out into the hall and makes his way past the guards. Here’s the part where we’ll need to be extra careful. If any of the Hand’s warriors suspect Amund is betraying them, this will get ugly. I hunker down and nuzzle further into his hair, making myself as small as possible. Amund is a big man, and his headdress just about covers me entirely, but I won’t take any chances. We pass the warriors by without incident, but we’re not out of the deep end just yet.

I can’t see where we’re going, I’m too busy hiding and keeping quiet, but we make a few more turns down another passageway before a door swings open and we step outside. I know we’re outside because it’s raining, and sounds echo off the stone walls. I dig my claws into the mantle of his armor to keep from being dislodged as he descends the stone staircase and heads toward the gate. “Open the gate!” he calls to one of the men. “I’m headed out!”

“Where ya headed, Sky Watcher?” one of them asks.

“Want to get a closer look at the Lady’s distress.”

It’s all the explanation they need, and they don’t seem to rightly care what Amund does anyway, as long as he’s not freeing the prisoners of the Hand of Korth and aiding the Inquisition. I wonder for a moment if any of them have any true loyalty to Hand, or if they’re just curious as to whether or not he can actually defeat the Herald of Andraste. I bet they are. I am too. I’ve never seen Cadash fight, but I’ve heard what people have to say about him.

I have this bad feeling though. That the Hand of Korth will have something up his sleeve, and spring a nasty trap on the dwarf. I doubt the Hand will fight fairly. He’s proved he has no honor by neglecting to carry out his Thane’s wishes for him to go to Tevinter. He may think he can earn it back by warring with the Inquisition and proving his might against Andraste’s Herald, but I doubt he will even then. But that doesn’t mean he won’t still try to ensure his victory.

The large gate opens before us and Amund marches onward, the chains creaking and groaning with the weight as the gate falls shut behind us.

Almost there.

I think we might just make it out of here alive.

But I suppose the real question is, will we make it to the Herald in time to save the scouts?

Or will the Hand of Korth pick them off one by one?


	4. Chapter 4

It feels like an hour of walking before Amund finally stops, sighs, and says, “Alright, little cat, I think it’s safe to come out now.”

I crawl out from under his headdress and jump, shifting back into elven form just before I land with a crouch. I’m a bit winded, breathing heavily, and I flop back on my arse in the mud. Spending that much time in cat form has drained a lot of energy, and I’m still wounded. Not like shifting into a cat could magically heal me. When I’ve caught my breath, I accept Amund’s help up off the ground and let him lead me over to a tree and out of the worst of the rain.

Cat or not, I hate getting soaked. He sits me down and pulls out supplies to get me cleaned up and properly healed. I watch silently for a moment, studying him, while he works. There’s so much I want to say to him–a lot of things I probably shouldn’t, if I want to keep my head–but I don’t know where to start. So, skipping over our personal history with one another, I stay focused on the task at hand. “How close are we to the thoroughfare?” I ask, wincing a little when the ointment stings.

“A couple days,” he shrugs, then continues. “That where you’re to meet your Herald and his soldiers?”

“If they’re still there, and haven’t already moved on.”

“We’ll rest for an hour, then head out. It’ll be dawn soon.”

I glance up at the sky. I can’t tell if it’s night or day because of all the clouds. Lightning strikes dangerously close to our position and makes me jump. The sky is truly angry. “How long has it been raining like this?”

“Ever since the sky opened.”

“And it hasn’t stopped?”

Amund shakes his head, and that has me curious. It has not stopped raining in the Mire since the Breach opened? I sense something in the air, and I imagine Amund feels it too. Any mage would. Like static electricity, make my hair stand on end. The prickling sensation of magic. No wonder the Lady of the Sky is in turmoil. There are probably rifts all over the place and the energy of the Fade is tampering with the natural order of things. Including the weather.

“Curious,” I mumble, then continue my silent watch of Amund once more.

He notices me staring and sighs, setting items aside and leaning back against the tree.

“Can’t imagine you’re too happy to see me,” he says.

“What makes you say that? Not feeling guilty about things, are we?”

“A little,” he says, which is a surprise. “I didn’t believe a word of what the Hand accused you of. But I didn’t take up for you. I wouldn’t speak against my Thane’s judgement of you. Or your banishment.”

I watch the rain fall for a moment, letting those words hang in the air for a little while. Would’ve been nice to hear, years ago, when it actually mattered. But it hardly makes any difference now. I suppose that’s why there isn’t any emotion in his words. Just stating fact. Maybe because I’m still sore over the whole thing is why I choose to ignore it. “So what has Movran been up to since I left?” I ask, changing the subject.

“His usual nonsense,” the Sky Watcher shrugs. “The Hold has been at odds ever since this mess of a war between the Circle mages and their Templars began. There was a disagreement between the chief and his son of how to deal with the threat of the lowlanders, and as punishment for speaking out against him, Movran thought the Hand should go to the north, thought to send him after a group of slavers that had raided our village the year before. Track them down, bring back any of our people left, to prove his worth.”

“But obviously he didn’t,” I point out, and Amund nods.

“Our people are probably all dead by now. He didn’t see a point in taking up arms against Tevinter. Saw no glory in it. A fool’s errand. Half suspected Movran sent him just to get rid of him. And so he thought to come here instead. He would prove himself as a warrior, worthy of the title of Thane, by challenging the Inquisition, and their God. Boy never quite learned his place.” He makes a ‘pshh’ sound, rolling his eyes. “Redheads,” he mumbles.

I snort a little. “You know, that’s what I used to like about him,” I comment.

Amund lifts a brow. “And I bet you steer clear of ‘em nowadays.”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I avoid redheads at all costs.”

Amund chuckles a little, then reaches to pat my arm. It’s a gentle pat, which means I don’t go flying three feet, and instead only jostle a little in my spot beneath the tree, laughing with him. Gods! How many years has it been since I’ve laughed with the Sky Watcher like this? I can’t even remember. We’re silent again after that, until I say, “I’m not angry with you, you know.” He glances over at me. “I used to be, but I understand now why you did what you did.”

Amund nods a little, grateful for my understanding, then sighs.

“So where have you been all these years, Soft-Paw?” he asks me, and I settle more comfortably in my spot.

I tell him all about wandering the Frostbacks on my own, heading southwest, eventually ending up at the Basin, encountering Stone-Bear Hold. I didn’t stay for long, but while I was there, I ended up learning quite a lot about healing from their shamans, and various other forms of magic. They too accepted me, though I was an outsider, and often I would trade with them, but I largely kept my distance. Kept myself from getting too attached.

I’ve always been an outsider. I’ve never really belonged anywhere. Not even among my own kind. I’m not Dalish, I know next to nothing about their people, or their Creators, though I do mention to Amund that I picked up a little of their culture from a Dalish elf I met working with the Inquisition. But I don’t belong with them. I wouldn’t live in an Alienage either. I certainly don’t belong with any Chantry folk, elven or otherwise, much less the humans. I’m used to being the odd one out.

But I think that’s why I’ve stuck it out for so very long with the Inquisition. Because there are a lot of folks that joined their cause that don’t really have anywhere else to go. I still don’t quite fit in, but I don’t feel quite so alone as I used to feel, when I wandered the wilds. It hasn’t been all that bad, and I finally feel like I’m part of society again. Amund asks me if I ever found out what happened to my family, and I tell him about them most likely being killed during the Blight.

So I’m truly on my own now, but…I’m not the only one.

The rain doesn’t appear to be letting up anytime soon, confirming my suspicions that it’s magical in nature, and the sky is still as dark and ominous as it was the hour before, but through what magic Amund uses to tell time, he finally says, “Dawn is breaking. We’d better get moving.” I’m cold and soaked, still only wearing trousers, but I’m not about to shift only to get my fur wet, so I rub my arms to keep warm and follow the Sky Watcher into the storm.

* * *

I’ve never seen one of the smaller rifts up close before, but if the Breach gives any clue of what to expect, then what Amund and I have stumbled upon is indeed a rift. We can feel the raw energy of the Fade surrounding it, and I’m not entirely sure of what it’s supposed to do, but it appears dormant at the moment. No spirits are popping out of it, but just to be on the safe side, we keep our distance. The unholy green light surrounding the tear matches that of the Breach in the sky.

I wonder if it’s just when someone gets too close that demons sense someone on the other side, or if it’s only the Herald that activates it. Amund studies the tear, rubbing the scruff on his chin with thumb and forefinger, curious of it. “What sort of magic do you suppose would cause this?” I ask him.

“Can’t say,” he shrugged. “Only that the Lady doesn’t seemed pleased with it. You can see the signs as clear as day. But something is terribly wrong, isn’t it?”

“Too right.” I shiver a little. “Gives me the creeps. We shouldn’t linger here. Maybe come back with the Herald so he can close it.”

As if some form of irony, right after I say that, the rift chooses to open. The green crystals of energy twist and distort, before a blast of energy spews out and corrupt spirits begin to manifest. Well, isn’t that just lovely? Now Amund and I get to fight demons. “I don’t think these spirits are too happy to see us, little cat,” Amund comments as he draws his staff. They snarl and edge closer to us, causing us to back away from them and prepare to fight.

“No, I don’t suppose they are,” I agree.

But just when Amund charges his staff and prepares to cast a spell, an arrow zings through the air striking one of the spirits. A flash of armor comes into my vision and I recognize that blue sash. It’s Harding! Thank all the Gods! The dwarf in Inquisition scout armor shoots down some of the demons, turning their attention away from us and toward the group of agents running at them. Once the spirits are sent back to the Fade, she waves to us both.

“Hurry! This way! Before it opens again!”

“Your people, I’m guessing?” Amund asks, and I nod, so he follows and we make our escape before more demons manifest and pour from the rift. Without the Herald, it’s not like we can just keep fighting wave after wave until it’s closed. Especially not if something bigger comes through that proves too strong for me and Amund to contend with. “My thanks to you, little lowlander,” Amund tells Lace, when we’re far enough away from the rift that it falls dormant once more.

“No problem,” she says, and turns to me. “Healer, glad to see you’re still alive. But where are the others?”

“They’ve been taken captive by the Hand of Korth.”

“The Hand of Who? Oh, wait, yeah, the Avvar, I’m assuming.” She glances up at the Sky Watcher. “This one a friend of yours, I’m guessing?”

“This is Amund, Sky Watcher of Thane Movran’s tribe.”

“You’re, uh, you’re not attacking us,” she says to him, scratching her head, confused that he should be helping me and not with the other Avvar.

“He helped me escape the fortress,” I say. “And he’s been interested in figuring out what caused all these rifts.”

“Never seen anything like their like,” he says. “They spit out angry spirits, endless. The little cat tells me their caused by the Breach in the sky, is it? No wonder the Lady is so distressed. Better get your Herald of Andraste to fix this mess, if he can.”

“Yeah, about that,” Lace stops in the middle of the path and turns to us. “He hasn’t showed up yet. But we could really use your help, Elias. Some of my scouts came back wounded. We discovered more rifts further in. We can’t get anywhere near the Fortress. Not without undead popping up everywhere. Apparently the rifts have brought them back to life, and they’re coming out of the bog. I can’t believe the two of you made it out of there.”

“There’s a trail that leads right through,” I say. We’re nearing the base camp now, and I see a bustle of soldiers and scouts scurrying about. There’s a tent erected where the wounded lay, and I head straight for it, adding, “Have your men keep out of the water and they won’t have that trouble again. Might also be good to set up traps and lay them out. Maybe some wards, to keep away the spirits. They’re probably possessing the corpses.”

Amund takes a seat outside, by the fire, sets down his staff, and accepts a bowl of stew when it’s offered, with gratitude. I myself head inside the healers’ tent and see what I’m working with. I have to say, it feels good to get back to my new sense of normalcy. As the Inquisition’s Healer. But after I’ve had a chance to get a look at all the wounded in their cots, my heart jumps right to my throat when I see the man at the end. I didn’t expect to see him here.

“Wickam?” I gape at the Lieutenant as he writhes in pain.

“Boy am I glad to see you, Healer,” he says, smirking, though he speaks through teeth gritted in pain, clutching his stomach.

Can’t say the feeling’s mutual, however.


	5. Chapter 5

“What are you doing here?” I ask Wickam, after I’ve healed his injury and he flops back onto the cot with a sigh of relief. “I spoke to Cullen before I left. He said you wouldn’t be sent to the Fallow Mire.”

And I’m a little pissed about this turn of events.

“When I heard you were among the people that went missing, I asked the Commander for the reassignment,” he says, and while part of me is elated to hear that, because it makes me think he actually cares about me, part of me is in no way thrilled to see him still.

We didn’t part on good terms before I left Haven. The morning after our night spent together, he rejected me. Told me it could never happen again because he’s a Templar and I’m a mage. That it was a mistake, being with me in the first place. I can’t fault him for that, not really, but it still stings, and looking at Wickam now, I realize it hasn’t been long enough to get over it. I might’ve forgiven Amund for his past transgressions, but it’s too soon to be so objective about my situation with the Lieutenant.

“Well, you still need rest,” I tell him, getting up from where I’ve been sitting on the cot. “Bed rest, for at least another day.”

That may or may not be a lie so that I can keep my distance from him, but bed rest would still do the man a world of good.

“Thank you,” he tells me, and with a nod, I exit the tent.

I crack my stiff neck, rubbing the sore muscles, then look around the encampment. Someone’s cooking something, and a group of agents are training for combat, expecting to be sent out again soon, I imagine. Most of them will set up more encampments around the Mire, once the Herald has arrived, and is able to close the rifts so that our people can get through safely. I find Harding in another tent, what looks to be a makeshift command center, jotting notes on parchment.

“I appreciate your help,” she tells me when she sees me.

“No trouble,” I tell her, waving off the thanks.

She reaches behind her for a bundle and holds it out to me. “You must be freezing. Here, put these on.” She reaches into another crate and plops a pair of boots on the table, making my ears twitch. “Nice and dry.” I pull the tunic over my head, grateful for the warmth, then examine the boots. A much sturdier leather, better for keeping out moisture, though they don’t appear to be completely water proof. But I slip them on, over my stockings.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. You must be hungry too. Dinner will be ready soon.”

“Hard to tell what time it is in this place,” I say with a chuckle. “Let alone supper time.”

She snorts. “Yeah. Your friend there, the Sky Watcher, seems to keep good track of time though. He wouldn’t tell us much more about what’s going on. Said it would be better to talk to you about it, since you’re one of _ours_ now, or something like that. So, can you say why it is that the Avvar would want to take some of our people captive in the first place? What do they want with the Inquisition?”

“They meant to send a message, hoping to draw out the Herald. They mean to challenge him.”

Lace quirks a curious brow at that. “But why though?”

“Simply put, the Hand of Korth means to show the might of his warriors. The Avvar are greatly offended by the ‘false Chantry god’, and mean to test the will of Andraste against the Gods of the Avvar. The lives of the other scouts hang in the balance. They’re alive, for the moment, but they won’t be, if Ser Cadash doesn’t answer their challenge. They’re being held in one of the store rooms inside the keep. They’re guarded day and night.”

“How did you manage to escape?”

“Amund snuck me out.”

“But…how?”

I chuckle a little. “Another story for another time, Lead Scout. But I can tell you, there’s no going in the way I came out. And the Keep is too heavily guarded to sneak more agents in. I’m afraid the only option is to send the Herald of Andraste to meet their challenge.”

“That sounds dangerous, and stupid.”

“It is. But I know the Hand of Korth. He’ll be a tricky one to fight, but I know his weaknesses. How soon until Cadash arrives?”

“Tomorrow, Maker willing. I’ve sent a raven to Sister Leliana, so he knows about as much as I did of the situation. In the meantime, get settled, get something to eat. We’ll probably be here for a while.”

With a fist across my chest in salute, I leave Harding’s tent and make my way to the nearest campfire. The rain has let up some, just a light drizzle now, but the sky is still dark above. Only the barest hints of daylight poke through the dark clouds. I sit and twitch nervously, tapping my foot, until supper comes. Everything that’s happened the last few days dragged up a lot of unwanted memories. Things I’d hoped to leave behind me, yet they’ve returned to bite me in the arse.

I can’t wait to get out of this place.

* * *

“Thank you for coming,” Lace says after saluting the Herald and his party in greeting. “Maybe you can solve this mess. Our missing scouts are being held hostage by Avvar, barbarians from the mountains.”

“So I’d heard,” says Cadash, with a nod. “Leliana debriefed me on the situation. What do they want with the Inquisition?”

“That’s the thing. Their leader, he wants to fight you. Because you’re the Herald of Andraste.”

“What do they have against Andraste?” he chuckles, scratching his head in confusion.

“Well,” Lace shrugs a little, “The Avvar say you’re claiming to be sent by a God, and they’ll challenge the will of your God with their own. More or less. I think they’re leader’s just a boastful little prick who wants to brag he killed you.”

Beside him Varric snorts. “There’s a long line to skip to the front of,” he says.

“Yeah, heard that,” Cadash agrees. Lace is only mildly amused by it though.

“So, should I autograph something for him before he tries to behead me?”

“Getting to our troops won’t be easy,” she says, skipping over his comment. “You’ll have to fight your way through undead.”

“I’ve fought worse,” he shrugs. “I’m not about to let the Avvar butcher the Inquisition’s people. I’ll see what this Avvar leader has to say for himself.”

“So we plan to go give this bastard a warm Free Marches welcome to the Mire, eh?” Blackwall asks, and Cadash nods.

“Yeah, I’d say that’s in order.”

“Sounds fun,” Sera shrugs behind him. “Bigger ones fall flat on their backs same as little ones. And speaking of little ones…” She grins at Lace, who blinks in surprise, making Cadash scowl. “Heh, on their backs, am I right?” Sera winks.

“Better quit while you’re ahead, Buttercup,” says Varric when he notices the Herald’s bubbling rage.

“Well, I appreciate your efforts, Herald,” Lace says to Cadash. “The Avvar are holed up in the castle on the other side of the Fallow Mire. Maker willing, the Inquisition’s people are still alive. But the Healer made it through.”

“Elias is alive?”

“Yeah. He can tell you more about what’s going on, and maybe how to get safely through the Mire to where the Avvar are keeping our scouts. Also, there’s one of them here at camp. A friendly, that helped him escape confinement.”

“I’ll speak to them then.”

I’m nursing a cold when the Herald finishes talking to Lace Harding and the group makes their way over. I recognize Varric of course, but the two people with them are relatively new. The blond elf in rags with a bow and arrows I’ve only seen once in the tavern, but we’ve never spoken, and the man I’ve never seen at all. Must’ve been hanging around by the training yard. He’s wearing a chestplate embossed with a griffon insignia. That’s a new one on me.

“Good to see you’re alive, kid,” is the first thing Cadash tells me, reaching to clap my shoulder.

“Bout time you showed up,” I grumble, half smiling. “What is he?” I ask, sniffling, pointing at the burly man with a beard as big as the Herald’s, but neater and straighter, carrying a sword and shield. “Griffon the new Inquisition symbol or somethin’?”

“Never seen a Warden then?” he asks, with a northern accent, though it’s relaxed, and a bit drawn at the edges, like a southerner, rather than high and nasally like most Marchers. Not from Ostwick like the Herald. Somewhere farther west maybe? Like Markham? Old chap has spent too much time in Ferelden, has he? I shake my head at his statement. No, I’ve never seen a Grey Warden. I was long gone from Ferelden when the Blight swept through. “Hmph, fancy that.”

“This is Warden Blackwall. And you remember Sera, right?”

“Vaguely,” I shrug. “You’re the one that put that chicken in Solas’ tent, right?”

“Hehe yeah, that was me,” she says.

“You put a chicken in Chuckles’ tent?” Varric asks, disbelievingly. “Whatever for?”

I snort. “With a head like that, what better use for a chicken than to lay it.”

Sera cackles. “See?! Egghead! He gets it!”

“Oh great, they’re friends now,” Varric sighs dejectedly.

Skipping over all of that, Cadash says, “Harding tells me you know more about the situation with the Avvar.”

“I do, yes. They’re being held at that fortress on the other side of the swamp by a man called the Hand of Korth.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

I sigh. “What _don’t_ I know about him?” I ask myself.

“Have a personal history with the guy, I’m guessing.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“Harding also tells me there’s an Avvar here? One that _isn’t_ trying to kill us?”

“Yes. His name’s Amund. He’s a Sky Watcher. You don’t have to worry about him. Even under _normal_ circumstances. Watchers aren’t warriors. They’re usually sent in for dead. Funeral rites, medicine for the sick, a dagger for the dying, you know, that sort of thing. They don’t fight. Can, but don’t. The Lady calls him to serve a _higher_ purpose. He’s interested in what’s disturbing the spirits, causing the rifts. He’s here to help, not harm anyone.”

“Who’s the Lady?” he asks.

“The Lady of the Sky. An Avvar god of nature.”

“Ah. So is there anything else you can tell me that I might find useful? Harding said something about a path leading right through the bog?”

“Yeah. It’s marked by beacons of some kind. Likely placed here long before the Breach, meant to keep away the undead during the Blight, I’m guessing. There are wards in place. I haven’t gotten the chance to study them more closely though.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“Just more thing. I’m coming with you. I myself have a little unfinished business with the Hand of Korth.”

“Whoa,” Varric cuts in. “Not sure that’s such a good idea, Healer. We’re not going to negotiate with these guys. Things might get ugly. You’re better off staying here at base camp where it’s safe.”

“Man’s got a point,” Cadash agrees.

I roll my eyes. “You have no mage in your party, Herald. You might need me, and I’m good for more than just healing. I can handle myself.”

“Alright. If you’re sure about this. But I’ll warn you now, I’m not sparing the Hand of Korth. And I’m not taking prisoners.”

I grin at those words, my eyes narrowing, pupils becoming cat-like slits.

“Yeah, I’m counting on it,” I say.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do pardon my questionable description of diseases. Trying to keep it somewhat believable and compliant in the Dragon Age universe. In other words, I suck at it.

I’ve decided I like Blackwall. The man hardly speaks two words, let alone has a complaint, and it seems that’s all the others do. I never knew that traveling with the righteous Herald of Andraste would mean listening to a couple of surfacers bicker about the weather. Oh and Sera too. Guess that’s what you can expect from a bunch of city folk. But Blackwall on the other hand seems like a man who’s had to fend for himself, maybe rough it a time or two.

“Yuck! I hate bogs,” Sera says as we amble along, stepping over the mud.

“I second that,” says Varric. “My blisters have blisters and I swear I’ve had more water in places than I’ve ever had bathing!”

“Is it ever going to stop raining!” grumbles Cadash.

“Oh pipe down, the lot of you,” Blackwall chides. “There are worse places to be. The Deep Roads, for one.”

Varric shudders in disgust at their mention.

I chuckle a little. “Or a desert, with no water at all,” I add.

“The Hissing Wastes.”

“The Western Approach.”

“True, or even the Abyssal Rift.”

“Oh! What about stuck in the middle of the ocean in a sinking ship?”

“Holes blown clear through the hull, sails ripped to shreds…”

“And you can’t even swim.”

Cadash throws up both hands. “Great! Well, the two of you go to one of those places then! Just shut up about them!”

“Ha! See?! Now you know what your bickering about this swamp sounds like.”

The Herald grumbles under his breath, then glances up at the sky. It’s even darker than before, which means the sun is setting, and night time is worse than day time. It’s when all the undead like to come out and play. So he urges us to make camp, and asks me to get a fire going. He gapes in disbelief when I ask him for a bit of flint. “What?” I bark. “You think all mages just snap their fingers and poof there’s a flame? Shows what you know about magic.”

“You can’t conjure a bit fire?” Blackwall asks, more or less out of curiosity and I sigh.

“Elemental magic doesn’t come easily for me,” I admit, with some hesitation.

“Great!” chirps Sera, grinning, punching me in the shoulder. “Means you’re not going to burn the whole camp down. Fine by me.”

Well, that’s _one_ person in the group who won’t poke fun at me.

Cadash sets down his pack and starts unraveling a tarp for a tent and asks, “So if elemental magic isn’t your thing, what sort of magic do you use besides healing?”

“The useful sort,” I say. And that’s all I’ll say about it. He’ll find out soon enough, I wager. After everything’s set up, and the fire is burning as bright as it can, considering the inclement weather, I set a rack near the flame. “Right everyone, boots off. Stockings too.” Blackwall is the only one that doesn’t question it, taking a seat by the fire with a small groan, given his age, and pulling them off his feet to hand them over with a nod of thanks.

“Why are we taking our boots off?” Varric asks. I roll my eyes.

“To dry them by the fire,” I say as I’m hanging up Blackwall’s next to mine.

“But what’s the point? There just doing to get wet again!”

“Do you want your foot falling off?” I ask, and he makes a partially bewildered, partially disgusted face at that.

“Keeping your boots dry is the best way to fend off infection,” Blackwall explains. “As a soldier you’re encouraged to change your socks too. Don’t want an infection leading to gangrene.”

“Ew, what’s that?” Sera asks.

“It’s when an infection starts killing the bodily tissue and typically solved by amputating the limb to keep it from spreading, in the worst occurrences.”

At the thought of losing a limb to something as simple as a foot fungus, quickly they scramble to take their boots off, socks next, handing them off to me. Blackwall shoots me a wink, and I smirk a little. “And wash your feet,” I add. “With soap, if you have it. Just not in the bog water.”

We all settle by the fire for a time, warming our feet by the flames, and the silence is quite peaceful–only interrupted periodically by the jarring snap of thunder over head, and the sizzle of lightning–and me I’m left alone with my thoughts for a time, at least until Varric starts asking questions. Mainly about my history with the Avvar. He knows some of it by our conversations in the Singing Maiden when everyone gets together to play cards, but not everything.

“Movran found me as a boy,” I say, to sum it up for those curious. “The Hand’s father, their tribal leader. When I ran away from home to escape being dragged to the Circle. I think he was just curious about me really, and so that’s why he didn’t kill me. Brought me back to their Hold’s encampment, plopped me down in front of Amund, their Sky Watcher. He taught me quite a bit about Avvar magic, their spiritual beliefs, and whatnot. Taught me how to control my powers.”

“So why did you leave?” Cadash inquires.

“I was banished,” I say. “Falsely accused of treachery, but Movran took some pity on me and instead of killing me, he simply sent me away. I think he suspected the truth, but didn’t want his tribe thinking he favored a lowlander over his own kin.”

“That’s kinda harsh though. To just send you away like that.”

I shrug a little. “It happens on occasion,” I say. “When there is a dispute, sometimes it’s preferable to the alternative.”

“Which would be?”

“Being eaten alive by the Hold Beast.” They grimace at that. “Every tribe has one. It’s both a great honor, and a terrible punishment, to be fed to the Hold Beast. They are revered by the tribe. Almost worshiped, but certainly to be respected. To disrespect the Hold’s chosen animal is to disrespect not only them, but an affront to their Gods. At any rate, Movran had a choice to make, side with an outsider, or his own people that condemned me. Banishment was a happy compromise.”

“What did they accuse you of?” Varric chooses to ask next, and I bristle a little.

I don’t wish to discuss it with anyone, let alone them.

“You should get some sleep,” I say, dodging the question. “I’ll keep watch.”

Sensing he touched a nerve, Varric only shrugs and is the first to enter the tent. Blackwall is next, followed by Sera, but the Herald stays behind. “I’ll keep watch with you,” he offers.

“You should get some rest too. You’ll need your strength when we reach the fortress.”

“I’m not about to leave you out here to fend for yourself, kid.” He chuckles a little. “Sounds to me like you’ve had quite enough of that.”

I sigh, but don’t bother arguing with him. He is the Herald of Andraste after all. Don’t know if he was actually saved by Andraste, but I suppose it doesn’t matter anyhow. And I don’t know if he actually leads the Inquisition, but pretty much everyone, including the advisers, pretty much treats him as such. I guess if I were to deny him what he wants, that’s like offending my commanding officer, right? I shift a little in my seat and affix my eyes on the forest around us.

“So, that unfinished business you have with the Avvar,” he says quietly, “That have anything to do with your banishment?” When I don’t readily answer, he pops another question. “The Hand of Korth is responsible for your banishment, I’m guessing.”

“He’s part of it, yes, but that’s not why I’m here.”

“So what can you tell me about him?”

“Wields a two handed weapon. Likes to favor intimidation tactics. Stay low. Avoid frontal attacks. And strike from the back.”

Cadash sighs. “While that is all very useful information, and I appreciate it, that’s uhm…that’s not exactly what I meant. What’s your personal history with this guy?”

“Complicated.”

“Geez, it’s like trying to get Cullen to talk about Kirkwall. Or getting Blackwall to talk about _anything_.”

“It’s just…some things shouldn’t be mentioned in polite company.”

“I was a Carta assassin. I’m not exactly ‘polite company’.”

“But you’re also the Herald of Andraste.”

“Yeah, so people keep telling me. Look kid, whatever your problem is with this guy, I just want to make sure it isn’t _too_ personal. As in, causing your judgement to be clouded.”

I glance at Cadash, considering his words, then sigh. “Maybe it is,” I admit. “Not clouding my judgement, but maybe it is a bit too personal.” I run a hand through my hair, before slowly exhaling. “We were lovers,” I say. “If you can call it that. Before I was banished, he and I were…uh, well, I don’t know what we were but we were involved. His father found us together. To avoid punishment, the Hand accused me of bewitching him. Forcing him to be with me.”

“Forcing him. As in…mind control? Sounds like he accused you of being a blood mage.” I nod a little at the Herald’s words. “That’s pretty serious shit. But you didn’t do it, right?”

“Of course I didn’t. And like I said, I don’t think Movran believed it, but when the whole tribe called for my head, he settled on banishment.”

“So, this _is_ pretty personal for you, isn’t it?” the Herald asks, and I nod.

“And if you ask me, it’s long overdue.”

“Why was the Hand afraid of admitting to the truth? That he likes other men?”

“Because he’s an idiot,” I say with an eyeroll. “But the Avvar don’t typically do that sort of thing. It’s not greatly accepted among their people. Only a man and a woman can have children, so they don’t see much logic in two men, or two women.”

“Well, shit, I’d better not tell Sera then. As if she needs anymore reason to put arrows in people.”

“I’d very much like if you didn’t mention any of this to anyone at all.”

“Why not?”

“You said so yourself, being accused of blood magic is pretty serious shit, and whether or not I actually did it, I’m already an apostate, and I don’t need to give the Chantry any more reason to be suspicious of me.”

“You make a good point. But I mean, if anybody asks, I don’t know if I can just lie to them. But I think the advisers would understand. Well, except maybe Cullen. He used to be a Templar…And maybe Cassandra, since she’s a Seeker.”

I hang my head at that. Not working to give me a vote of confidence here. But insofar as I can tell, Cadash seems like a good man. I’m glad it was him that was gifted with that mark on his hand. I just wish I was good at accepting things as they are, like he seems to be. We sit and watch the fire crackle for a time, before Cadash grimaces a little, scratching the back of his dark head.

“You know, in thinking about it, maybe it _is_ better to just keep it between us.”

I snort a little. “Not very confident, I see.”

“Well…I just got to thinking about what the advisers would say if they thought I’d been running around with an alleged blood mage and…yeah.”

“Well, just between you me, your friend Solas has a better chance at being a blood mage.”

Cadash quirks a brow at Solas’ mention.

But my eyes are already turning back to the fire.

All I can think about is the Hand of Korth.

And how badly I want to kill him.

Cadash is right, this _is_ personal.

I just wish it was _me_ he’d challenged, so I could _personally_ do the deed, but I’ll have to settle for the sidelines.


End file.
